Page 81 of That Moment
“That sounds like pretty solid advice.”
“Yeah, he was a pretty straightforward kind of guy, no-nonsense. He used to say that’s one of the things my mom loved most about him. He didn’t complicate things. He loved her, and he showed it daily through his actions.”
I’m so close to asking him what happened that made himnotwant a life like that. He had amazing parents who were a great example of a lifelong commitment, and yet, it’s like he’s spent his whole life running from just that.
“And then they had you,” I say instead, the words coming out softer than I intend. He looks over at me, and for a few seconds, the air shifts, and it feels like we’re both on the precipice of saying something we can’t come back from.
His eyes hold mine a little longer. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers, his thumb ghosting over my cheek. He leans in closer, nudging his nose along mine, breathing me in like he’s giving me time to catch up. I nod, small, and kiss him once, soft and sweet.
He follows me when I start to pull back, catching my bottom lip between his, that low sound in his throat. Heat flickers again. A coiled, content magnetism that pulls us closer without needing fireworks.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I murmur. “Or I’ll forget my body needs rest from the last time you looked at me like that.”
“I like it when you forget.” He drags his thumb along my mouth, studying the curve like he’s memorizing it. “Gives me another chance to remind you how good you’ve got it.” He grabs my hand and presses it against his firm cock. I snort, and he laughs with me, the bed shifting as his chest shakes.
“Is that how you keep them coming back?” I tease, poking a finger against his chest. He grabs it, bringing it up to his mouth to softly bite the tip.
“Why do you bring up other women in these moments?” His eyes search mine. The question isn’t malicious, I can see the genuine curiosity in his expression… or maybe it’s pity.
Suddenly, I feel a wave of shame and insecurity wash over me. I knew exactly who Scotty was the second I kissed him. Hell, I’ve known who he was since I was thirteen years old.
“Sorry, I—It’s insecurity,” I admit sheepishly. “Not jealousy,” I clarify.
His brow furrows as he cups my face. “I meant what I said about not competing, Adrienne; that goes the same way. If you’re in my bed, nobody else is. I know I don’t have my life completely figured out, but I know enough that I never want to lose you.”
“I know.” I place a hand over his, trying to keep the next question inside. “But for how long?” I close my eyes, pressing my forehead against his, praying he doesn’t answer if it’s going to break my heart. But the questions I didn’t ask hums under my skin.
Do you ever picture me in that life? Do you ever see us in the future?
The words crowd my throat and stall there. He’s telling me the truth I don’t want to accept without saying a word. So I slide closer and let him pull the comforter up over my back. He tucks it beneath my shoulder with ridiculous care, then covers his own body with the sheet and tugs me in until my leg is trapped overhis hips and my cheek is on his chest. His palm coasts down my spine and settles at the small of my back like a lock clicking home.
The sheet slips down as I sit up, the air cooling against skin still damp with sweat and Scotty’s scent. Every muscle protests, a sweet ache low in my body, reminding me how many times he made me come tonight.
“I should go home,” I murmur, swinging my legs toward the floor. “It’s late. I have work in the morning.”
His hand catches my wrist, rough thumb brushing the inside where my pulse kicks. “Stay.”
I turn back. He’s propped on one elbow, his chest bare, hair mussed.God, he looks so sexy.
“Scotty—”
“Just stay,” he says again, quieter now. He tugs lightly until I fall back against him.
My head finds his shoulder, and I nuzzle against his neck, the same spot that has so quickly felt like it was meant for me. “You know I shouldn’t.”
“Why?”
I lift my gaze to his. “You know why.”
For a long moment, he just looks at me, and it feels like the world holds its breath. Then he threads our fingers together, slow and deliberate, bringing my hand to his mouth. One by one, he kisses each fingertip, his lips hot and patient. When his tongue flicks and draws one into his mouth, I stop breathing altogether.
“Don’t mess with my head like this,” I whisper, though it comes out weaker than I want.
He cups the back of my neck, pressing his forehead to mine, voice low and gravel-soft. “I’m not.”
Something fragile and dangerous stretches between us—whatever this thing is that we keep pretending isn’t real. I canfeel it in every exhale, in the steady beat beneath his ribs, in the way his thumb strokes the hollow of my throat like a promise he won’t break.
“Stay,” he murmurs, not a command this time. A request. A rough, quiet one that makes my heart feel like it’s being squeezed in a vice.
